


kin

by poochooey



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Incest, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-27
Updated: 2011-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:11:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poochooey/pseuds/poochooey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bit similar to my other MHawke/Carver story, but with a bit of a happier ending. Looking at Garrett and Carver's relationship from a different angle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kin

  
"Seems like you and Junior have been getting along much better these days," Varric says one night at the Hanged Man, over the shouts of patrons, leaning over his mug of ale. "What's the secret, Hawke? I could use the advice."   


  
"Oh," Garrett laughs, so it sounds like more of a stutter, "I doubt it's as complicated as you think." He throws an arm around Carver, who is sitting next to him, and he has to reach.   


  
Carver can smell him, ripe after a day of trekking, wherever they've been. He doesn't know what his older brother is up to anymore, doesn't know if he wants to know. Doesn't want to know if maybe, he would miss it. He shifts, and his armor scrapes against the splinters in the chair.   


  
“I’m genuinely curious,” Varric says, and Garrett’s fingers drum along Carver’s neck.    


  
“A little love goes a long way with family, apparently.”   


  
Carver says nothing, maybe rolls his eyes. It doesn’t matter much in the end, because Garrett persuades Varric to tell them another story, a dramatic one, the side of his boot firm and real against Carver’s foot.   


  
\--   


  
"Aveline says it's admirable," Garrett tells Carver later, sitting on the bed in his room, rolling up the sleeves of his coat.   


  
Carver looks over his shoulder from where he’s standing in front of the fireplace, a feat in itself with such large pauldrons. “What?”    


  
"That you and I have been so civil with each other. I think she’s suspicious Sandal magicked you into a better disposition." Garrett leans forward and kicks his legs against the bed, smiling. "I told you, don't drink the soup."   


  
Carver listens to him laugh quietly to himself, then says, "It's bloody funny, isn't it?"   


  
"Isn't it? She thinks you're ‘maturing,’" Garrett starts to loosen the tie around his waist. "It's worth a chortle, at least."   


  
"A chortle," Carver repeats, watching him. "My brother’s friends finally say something nice about me, and it's still about my brother. Can't think of anything more worthy of a _chortle_. "   


  
Garrett pauses. "They're your friends too, Carver."   


  
Carver shakes his head. "No," he says, “no, they’re not. They never have been."   


  
"That's so melodramatic. Do you really have to be such a tit about everything? Come on," Garrett stands up now, goes to him, lightly smacks a hand over his armor.Carver feels it reverberate through his chest. "Relax."   


  
Carver can smell him, soap with a hint of lavender and maybe something richer. He shifts his weight as Garrett's hand drops to his skirts, pressing his palm into them until he finds what he's looking for.   


  
"Merrill's your friend, I think," Garrett says.Carver feels his heart twist, then his stomach follow suit as Garrett grabs his cock through the heavy fabric. "No smalls," he tuts, "what would Mother say?"   


  
Carver wants to hit him for bringing her into this too. He brings her up at the worst of times; drunk on cheap liquor, around Gamlen, as he holds his brother's dick. He gets as far as balling his hands into fists, but the flickering firelight intensifies the shadows of Garrett’s face, and Carver can see the sudden tightness in and around his mouth.   


  
“Right,” Garrett suddenly straightens, rubbing his palms together like he’s washing them, “I won’t take up any more of your time, then. I know how important your presence is in the Gallows.”    


  
“Right,” Carver echoes, now that neither one of them is in the mood.    


  
Garrett walks him to the door, saying he’s going to take the dog for a walk, maybe a trip down to the docks. He isn’t dressed for it, and before Carver leaves he hooks a finger into one of the straps on Carver’s arm, looking at him expectantly.    


  
“What?” Carver asks, pulls free, and walks out. Even though he knows.   


  
\--   


  
Hawke’s back at the Hanged Man again with his friends, where he most definitely should not be, his hair sticking up at all angles, his arm in a splint and his ribs bandaged. He hasn’t even bathed. Anders scolds him for not being at home resting, and Garrett promises he will after one last pint, throwing a fond look the healer’s way. Aveline does the same, but she gets an eyeroll in addition to that.    


  
Carver can smell him immediately even when he steps into the humid stench that wafts through the tavern: a sharp tang of blood he can taste in the back of his throat and the nauseating stink of burnt hair.   


  
He stands for a bit, then makes a noise he'll swear up and down was _not_ a sniffle later on, throwing his arms around his brother, bowing his face into Garrett's neck where he presses a secret, hidden kiss into the soft bristles underneath his jaw, over and over again.   


  
To the astonished group, he looks crazy, but Merrill coos and Garrett pats his head, embarrassed.    


  
He says, “thank you, but I don’t need any more bones broken. The Arishok did a good job of it, believe it or not.”    


  
Carver’s face is beet red, and he covers it with a gauntleted hand.   


  
Someone, one of the templars, had told him his brother was dead.    


  
\--   


  
They don’t see each other for a long while after that, Carver focusing on his tasks, trying to ignore the tranquil, the depressed Circle mages, Cullen’s hints of instability. Something feels wrong, feels off. Foreboding. It keeps Carver up when he lays down to sleep.   


  
The next night, Garrett answers the door with a bottle of wine balanced on his hip, wearing a low-cut shirt that channels Varric. He’s no longer wearing a splint or bandages, the only trace of bruising faded yellow across his cheekbones, and his face and middle have filled out a bit.   


  
“Nobody home tonight but me,” he says, tapping the bottle against his hip. “Feels lonely. I was thinking I would share this with Fenris…”   


  
“You were going there now?” Carver plays along, for once.   


  
Garrett grins. “Right across the street. I don’t even have to change. All you have to do is move out of the way, Carver.”   


  
Carver, of course, doesn’t. He puts a hand on Garrett’s chest, pushing him into the room, shutting the door behind them.    


  
\--   


  
That night, Garrett’s louder than he’s ever been, and probably ever will be.    


  
The bedroom is too far. They collapse in front of the stairs, Carver’s armor trailing behind them like breadcrumbs, and Garrett shouts, “tell me you want me. Say my name.”   


  
“Garrett,” Carver sounds like he’s being strangled, fists in his brother’s hair, and Garrett pushes harder against him, muscles clenching, holding tighter onto his cock, saying Garrett, Garrett, what about Garrett.   


  
“I _want_ you,” Carver says loudly, almost bellows, and immediately after he bows his head into his brother’s neck because he can’t believe himself, won’t ever forgive himself.    


  
But Garrett melts into him like a warm day, and it feels better than he thought it ever could. Garrett leans down to kiss Carver’s knuckles by his head as if to say, ‘it’s a start,’ or even, ‘thank you.’ __  


“A little love goes a long way,” he begins, and Carver groans woefully into his spine. 


End file.
